#the duck brought you a bundle of onions... and you killed him

[polygondotcomvideoproducer]

to cook IT with. the duck is the one being cooked with the onions

Maybe to you. I live in a cooler world. One with Duck Chef

[maine-writes]

Vonvon's Time Vacation: Part III, Winter Wonderland

Every travel brochure that features a beautiful hotel in the midst of an idyllic alpine paradise always like to emphasize the majesty of the great outdoors, the serenity of being far away from the chaos of metropolis, but all without leaving behind the conveniences and modernizations of today. Imagine taking a vacation in a tropical paradise, ostensibly to live the "island way", but with high-speed internet, cable, and a nearby familiar fast-food joint or coffee shop.

But always seem to fail to mention very obvious limitations and risks.

Such as weather.

Or the ever so rare "Trapped in a the middle of nowhere with a madman" situation that only really applies to hotels in the middle of nowhere and Airbnb.

Vonvon hurriedly scurried down a twisting hallway, flanked by storage cages made of slats of wood, locked by simply latches and a padlock. Their shoes squeaked on the cold concrete floors as they clumsily ran, occasionally glancing back down toward the other end of the hall. The grey lights of the hall flickered and buzzed, some dying entirely.

"Oh, Vonvoooonnn..." hissed a low, raspy voice. "Where are youuu?"

The child ducked around a corner, their back against the wood, clasping their mouth shut with their hand as they struggled to catch their breath. In their eyes, the dim glimmer of absolute fear.

As they peeked around the corner, peering down the hall, they saw a form slither out from the edge of the far turn.

It was a googly-eyed sock puppet, a demented smile scribbled on with red marker.

"I see you Vonnie," said the puppet, "You can't hide from me. I can hear your breath. I can smell your fear."

Vonvon scrambled to get away, running deeper into the darkest bowels of the basement. But how did they end up in this situation? How did a crazed killer get into the hotel?

It was around three in the afternoon, everyone had returned to a banquet room adjacent to the ballroom, where a staff of servers worked tirelessly to deliver their meals to them. Tonight, they were served a plate of beef bourguignon on top of garlic mashed potatoes. For dessert, they had an eggy flan with a topping of sweet, sticky caramel. Interestingly, the staff were rather short, a squat team of mostly identical looking oddballs who all seemed to be a bit dim. One notable server wore an eyepatch.

Vonvon looked around at all the empty tables, realizing that their party were the only guests in that evening. A troubling revelation when vacation.

They were just about halfway through their dessert when the lights suddenly died, only the dim afternoon light from the windows illuminating the room.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen." Said the tall front desk agent as she walked through the door. "It seems the storm has knocked out our electricity. We have a backup generator on standby, but until main power is back online, we will have to limit electrical use."

With a groan, Vonvon's party dragged their feet back to their rooms.

Vonvon flipped through the channels in their room's television set, all with the same program: static.

"Von, they said we need to limit electric use." Connie said, turning off the TV. "I'd rather not lose power to the lights early. Or heat."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Vonvon groaned. "Some vacation this is turning out to be."

"I'm sure they'll get the power back on soon."

Then there was a knock at the door. It was Sour Cream, peeking his head in.

"Hey, you guys seen my brother?"

Another instance of Onion wandering off to stave off the boredom. Another problem to add onto the load. To help in the search, Buck, Sadie, Jenny, and Lars joined him, and now to see if either Connie or Vonvon were up for it.

"We'll stay with Steven." Connie said, "Where is he?"

"He's in his room." Jenny replied, "I think he's a bit down."

"Ok, good luck guys."

As the group went down the hall, ready for the arduous task of searching for Onion, Connie and Vonvon gathered some blankets and pillows to take to Steven's room.

"You really think a pillow fort will cheer him up?" Vonvon inquired, a stack of pillows in hand.

"Are you kidding?" Connie laughed, "He'll love it!"

"Anything to get his mind off of it, huh?"

But as Connie raised her hand to knock, the door slowly creaked open, revealing a darkness within, illuminated by the flickering light of the TV set.

"Steven?" Connie said, finding no sign of him anywhere. "We brought pillows and blankets, thought we'd make a fort."

But the only thing in the room was a sock puppet, googly-eyes glued on, lying in front of the TV.

"Ok, this is weird." Vonvon said.

"Yeah, you stay here. I'll go find him."

Vonvon was now alone in a cold, dark room, accompanied only by a sock puppet. Nothing good can come of this.

Creeped out by the noise of the static, they turned off the TV and reached for the light switch. But when the lights flipped on, they were not greeted by a warm glow, but by sinister, blood-red light. They looked around the room in horror as they saw the mad rabblings of a crazed psychopath scribbed on the walls, revealed by the crimson glow.

No play makes a boy bored.

No play makes a boy bored.

No play makes a boy bored.

Written again and again and again and again and again and again on every surface, on the mirror, on the painting, on the mattress, and spiraling on the ceiling.

As Vonvon recoiled in horror, they looked at the TV, realizing that the sock puppet that was once there, was there no longer.

"Vonvon..." hissed a voice in the walls. "Want to play a game?"

And that's how they ended up in the basement, running for their life.

"Ok, obviously Dad is stressed out." Vonvon said to themself, "Maybe he just needs a hug."

"Vonnie..." said the sinister sock. "I plan to get under your skin..."

"No hug, no hug!"

Then they came upon a fork in the hall, one leading to darkness, the other to a doorway. They chose to risk it with the door.

As they slammed the door behind them, they turned to find themself trapped in the laundry room. On the far wall, there were large machines, baskets of linen and uniforms, and a cart of cleaning supplies. Above it were a series of windows, but too small for them to crawl through.

"Vonnieeeeee..."

Vonvon pressed their ear against the wooden door, listening as heavy footsteps drifted away. A sigh of relief escaped their lungs.

Then came a loud bang against the door, shaking its hinges, and Vonvon's sigh turned into a scream.

Then came another, and another, with each strike, the child screamed in fear.

"This door's pretty solid." panted the madman, gasping for air.

"I think it's oak." Vonvon sobbed.

"Then I guess I'll just have to huff and puff on this one then."

Vonvon could hear their pursuer take a step back, winding up for a mighty swing. They withdrew from the door as an axehead chopped through the wood, screaming in terror.

Peering in through the door was the puppet, an axe beside it.

"HERE'S COOKY!"

The child backed up toward the washing machines, pulling down tables and throwing baskets of clothes and fabrics on the floor in a vain attempt to make some sort of barrier or obstruction.

They then looked up at the windows, seeing the Garnet lookalike talking on a cellphone.

"Garnet!" Vonvon screamed, "Help me! Help me!"

But all she did, seeing the child waving their arms in distress, was wave back with a smile and return to her call.

Then Vonvon remembered that they had a cellphone.

"Right, stupid scared brain!"

They quickly went through their contacts, finding Pearl's cellphone number and called.

"Pearl's phone, Garnet speaking." responded a familiar voice.

"Garnet!" Vonvon screamed, "Get down here! Your disguises suck and Dad's gone berserk! Why'd you build a whole fountain with badly disguised statues?!"

"We're in the Caribbean." Garnet stated to Vonvon's disbelief. "We thought since you guys are on vacation, we should go on one too. Amethyst rode a shark."

Vonvon looked up through the window, watching the Garnet lookalike finish up her call before walking off.

"Tell Steven we said hi." Said Garnet, Lapis and Peridot laughing loudly in the background. "And don't forget, little kids shouldn't play in laundry rooms. There are exactly 47 ways to die in those rooms."

"Yeah, and I'm in Number 47!" Vonvon yelled into the phone, "Killed by crazed Dad!"

"Vonvon, don't be silly." Garnet said. "47 is Killed by Angry Ghost. Crazed Dad is number 4."

Then she hung up.

Out of options and out of luck, Vonvon threw their phone aside, brandishing a nearby brush as a weapon.

"Back off!" Vonvon yelled, failing to be intimidating, "I have a deadly brush!"

With one final push, the door came crashing down, splintering as it hit the concrete floor. Standing in the doorway was Vonvon's relentless pursuer; Onion, the sock puppet in hand.

"ONION!!!"

"He's such a handful sometimes, isn't he?" Jenny said. "Wandering off like that."

"Sour Cream thought he went to the maze out there and got lost." Buck added, pointing at a shivering Sour Cream wrapped in bundles of blankets, his feet soaking in a bucket of warm water. "Took hours for us to find him."

"Why didn't you come to the pool?" Steven asked, "One of the staff came by after you left and said they were going to keep it heated for us if we wanted to use it."

"Hey, I want to go to the pool." Sadie said.

"That sounds like a fun time." Lars agreed, "I think we can get bathing suits through my head if Lion's with the Gems."

Vonvon was tired. They sipped quietly at a juicebox, reflecting on the traumatic events that transpired. To think, this is what Onion was like as a child. The mild mannered young man they know in the future is the exact opposite of this strange boy.

"So Vonvon," Connie began, "What do you want to do now?"

The child thought about it, not for long though. There was one thing on their mind since the time they thought they were going to die.

"Think the kitchen can make me a burger?"

@artsycooky13

[rumraisinregret]

Unhooded chapter 5: Frost

Fenedhis, it was cold this morning.

Abelas brought his clasped hands up to his mouth and breathed into the cavity they made, his hot breath billowing out as steam between his fingers. He stomped in place for just a second to get the blood flowing to his numbed feet as they stood on the hard packed earth of the practice grounds. He was glad he made the decision to wear his gold armor today as they accommodated thicker under clothes.

He would have cast a warming spell over himself, had he not forbade the soldiers sparring before him from doing the same. If this cold snap continued for much longer, he would have to lift that particular restriction.

The weather this far north was usually milder, the past two winters he had spent with Fen’harel had been pleasant enough. A short, but welcome break from the oppressive heat and humidity of the summers that seemed to last far too long. Occasionally it rained, but it never snowed and the streams never froze. But when he woke this morning, there had been a layer of ice on the top of the water in his cistern. He had to break it and warm it before washing.

Now he stood in the pre-dawn light, observing a battalion of recruits demonstrate the skills they had learned these past months, an icy mist curling around their legs with every thrust and block. His lieutenants who roamed between the sets, correcting technique and praising progress, were bundled up with their cloaks wrapped tightly around them.  

He was inspecting the progress of the troops today and assessing the effectiveness of the new training methods they were using. Abelas’ eyes lingered on a petite woman to his right. She had been one of the ones to shy away when he pressed the attack during the first day of training, her arms raised above her head, forfeiting the match herself before he could get a hit in.

Now he watched as she evaded a downward thrust and, gathering a thick smoke around herself, slipped under and around her opponent’s guard to stab him in the back with her wooden training dagger. He saw similar such improvement amongst all one hundred pairs in front of him.

“Good,” he shouted. “Switch.”

Each bout ended and the partners switched who was on the offensive. And the ringing clang of fighting commenced once more.

He had them continue for some time before breaking for breakfast, as the sun slowly rose above the tops of the trees. Despite its brilliance, the warmth it provided was minimal, and did nothing to dispel the lingering chill in the air. He was not looking forward to his shift on watch tonight if this freeze was going to continue.

Even though he was the commander and didn’t answer to anyone but the Dread Wolf himself, he still liked to keep himself in the watch rotation. The perimeter of the camp was under constant guard, and not just because Fen’harel was paranoid. There was and always would be the very real threat of discovery that necessitated that scouts patrolled the outskirts of the camp day and night.

So Abelas took one shift a week. It was the one shift no one else wanted to be on: from dinner to just before sun up on the last night of the week. Most everyone else had that evening off. It was the one time they could relax and goof off, most of them getting drunk on the Embrium flower wine some of them brewed. He had never developed much of a taste for frivolity or cheap alcohol, so instead, he stood watch.

After the Lieutenants dismissed the troops for their morning meal, Abelas returned to his tent to prepare his own food. He had a small cache where he stored ingredients in a magically chilled strongbox and a larger chest for less perishable items. He selected a potato, a handful of white mushrooms, and a small onion and set them on the chopping block by his fire pit.

He had also begun a collection of pots and pans, but he didn’t have much room so his collection had remained limited. He grabbed his skillet and placed it on the grate over the unlit logs.

One of his neighbors built a chicken coop between their tents two springs ago, with several others around the camp following suit. He went and scooped two eggs out from under a broody hen, before returning to start his fire.

He had just called a tongue of flame into his palm when a message runner stopped in front of him.

“Commander, sir!” the man said with a salute.

Abelas glared up from his crouched position. “What is it?” he rumbled before lowering his hand to the kindling.

The man’s brow creased anxiously. “Sorry for bothering you, sir.” He swallowed. “Fen’harel has requested your presence in Command.”

“Very well. Tell him I will be there shortly.”

The man ran off almost before the last word left his lips. They had all learned by then that his temper grew short when he was disturbed with official business while he was seated in front of his fire. And consequently, all of his messages, unless they were urgent, were held until he went back on duty. But what could be more urgent than a summons straight from Fen’harel?

Once the man was out of sight, Abelas dropped his head with a sigh. He would have liked something a bit more involved for breakfast, but it seemed it was not meant to be. So instead, he quickly fried up the eggs and put everything else back.

He was still licking the grease from his lips when he ducked into the Command Tent where the Dread Wolf and Talitha the spy master were waiting for him. They stood on either side of the table with a map spread out and pinned to its surface.  A welcome warmth enveloped him as he passed into the area spell that heated the tent.  

“Thank you for joining us, Commander,” Talitha sneered, her lip curling in derision. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you.”

Abelas straightened, smoothing his cloak over the front of his armor. “Thank you for waiting for me,” he said, addressing Fen’harel.

The as yet silent elf raised a hand to silence another jab by Talitha. “It is no problem, Abelas,” he replied, “We are not in a rush.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Fen’harel began his face impassive, “the spy master was about to give me her report on the results of the investigation into Radavur and Varda Lavellan. I am interested to hear what you have found out in your own investigation.”

Talitha looked confused for just a moment before she turned it into a sly grin. “Ah, so the Commander was tasked with the interrogation, was he? And how did that go?”

“We will come to that,” Fen’harel interjected. “Let us hear the news out of Wycome first.”

Abelas was grateful for the opportunity to gather his thoughts on the matter before making an official statement. Especially since Talitha seemed eager to twist his words today, for whatever reason. The truth was, he found the Lavellan woman to be too much of a distraction, both mentally and physically, that he had quite deliberately pushed the entire matter out of his mind the better to focus on his responsibilities.

Talitha started with a drawn out sigh, as if it was all beneath her. “My agents infiltrated what was left of the Alienage in Wycome. Apparently, having a Dalish Keeper leading the city council has had an impact on the way the humans there view elves. Almost everyone who used to live in the Alienage have integrated into the general population of the city. Along with the Dalish clan, there are so many elves living freely there that our spies went unnoticed.

“It took a while to get close to anyone who knew the blacksmith’s family personally. They kept mostly to themselves. The daughter was something of a black sheep in the clan, so most people avoided them, except for some of the other craftsmen out of necessity.

“Not much was known about his late wife. Decades ago, she was found wandering in the wilderness and stark raving mad by all accounts. The clan took her in which is when the blacksmith met her. Around five years later, the daughter was born, and several years after that, there was another child. Most accounts agree it was another girl child.

“When the clan was still moving from place to place in the Free Marches,” she passed her hand over that part of the map, “there was an attack by humans who felt the elves were encroaching on their territory. Clan Lavellan lost rather a lot of people at that time, including the blacksmith’s wife and apparently their youngest child, although accounts vary about what happened to the child.

“As for any connection with the Inquisitor, not many people remembered Eléntari Lavellan as a child. ‘She spent time around every hearth, as all the children do’ as one of the elders we spoke to put it. The Dalish do not keep very good track of their children and seem to let them run wild with everyone taking a hand in raising them,” Talitha laughed derisively, clearly thinking she would do better, “but her family must have been killed in the same attack as the blacksmith’s wife, because after that, she was taken in by the Keeper and raised to be First.”

Fen’harel glanced sadly to the ground. “She never spoke about her family,” he said, so quietly that Talitha did not hear him, for she continued.

“There was no evidence of any correspondence between the former Inquisitor and anyone in the clan besides the Keeper, who has a habit of then sharing the contents of the letters with the rest of the members. The Dalish in general do not appear to be very good secret keepers amongst themselves.” Here she stopped and consulted her notes.

“In the two months since they’ve entered the camp, the blacksmith and his daughter have been under constant surveillance, as per your orders.” She nodded to the Dread Wolf. “They have not acted suspiciously or tried to send any messages to the outside world. They’ve been genuinely helpful to anyone who asks. And as you know, he has begun making armor and weapons to outfit your growing army. They do not set off any warnings to me,” she concluded.

Fen’harel was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Thank you for your report. You may cease the surveillance on them.” Then he turned to Abelas. “You spoke to them,” he said, “what was your impression?”

The spy master turned to him as well and gave him a smile like a cat that just got into the cream.

Abelas didn’t know what she was up to, but he suspected he wasn’t going to like it when he found out. He tried to ignore it and turned his attention back to their leader, clearing his throat. “I agree with Talitha’s assessment that they are not spies. Much of what they said corroborated the story that your agents brought back from Wycome.” He told them of his conversations with both Radavur and Varda, and expounded on the clan’s treatment of Varda and their reasons for leaving. “I feel that they can be trusted,” he said when he had finished.

Talitha laughed and started speaking again as soon as Abelas stopped. “I don’t know that the Commander can be trusted to be an impartial judge of character in this instance.” Her grin turned wicked as she sidled up to him. “The blacksmith’s daughter is a pretty thing, isn’t she? You seem rather taken with her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abelas said, coldly. He steadfastly did not meet her eyes as they bored into the side of his head.

Fen’harel’s brows rose in surprise and the corners of his mouth quirked up as he studied Abelas’ expression.

“Don’t you?” Talitha continued. “Some of my people saw you flexing your muscles for her a few weeks ago before entering her quarters. They say you were in there for quite some time.”

So that’s what she thought she knew. He was right, he didn’t like it.

“I was in her flet for barely five minutes,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Oh ho! So you admit it,” she crowed, “and that’s saying something about your performance, Commander. Only five minutes, shameful!” She giggled.

Abelas rounded on her, ready to refute her absurd claims, but Fen’harel raised a hand between them. “Stop bickering, you two,” he ordered sharply. “And there is no need to be crude.” He directed the last bit to Talitha.

She ducked her head contritely. “Apologies, Lord Fen’harel,” she mumbled.

“You will not bring it up again.” He pierced her with a glare. “You may leave. I would speak with Abelas alone.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said and fled into the crisp morning air.

When she had left, Fen’Harel resumed his study of Abelas. “Is there any truth to her claims?”

“Of course not,” he said, a little too quickly.

The Dread Wolf raised an eyebrow.

Abelas pressed his mouth into a thin line. This was not the conversation he wanted to have this morning. He exhaled in a heavy sigh and elaborated, “She needed help carrying something and I offered. Nothing happened like what Talitha was implying.”

Fen’harel waved his hand dismissively. “I did not think it had. But that part is none of my business nor is it to what I was referring.”

Abelas creased his brow in confusion. “What then?”

“Are you interested in Varda Lavellan?”

Abelas was going to deny it immediately, but then he hesitated. Why exactly was he so adamant in eluding her around camp this last month? He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again to gather his thoughts. “She,” he swallowed, “she affects me. In a way that I cannot deny is intriguing. But it is most distracting, and I will not let it divert me from my duties. For that reason I have been avoiding her.”

Fen’harel gave him a knowing smile but his eyes held a depth of sorrow that Abelas understood all too well. “Then you are a stronger man than I,” he said simply and turned to look at the map on the table.

“Tarlen?” Abelas asked surprised at the familiarity with which the statement had been delivered.

Fen’harel sighed. “I do wish you would call me Solas, at least when private matters are being discussed.”

Abelas stopped short at that. It wasn’t the first time it had been asked of him, but he hadn’t truly given much thought to the previous request. This particular line of questioning, however, made him reconsider. “Very well.”

“Thank you,” Fen’harel – no, Solas said, still wearing that sad smile. “I will not get into the details of my personal affairs, although we both know of my lapse in restraint regarding another of the Lavellan women. They do seem to have an effect on old soldiers like us, do they not? There would be no harm in a momentary personal diversion, it might even be good for your morale, as long as you do not allow it to keep you from your obligations, of course.”

Abelas smiled grimly, “I do not know if that would be wise. Was there another reason you wanted to speak with me?”

“Returning to the business at hand then,” Solas perused the map again, his fingers skimming over some of the eastern most islands. “Before you arrived, Talitha said word had reached her of the location of an artifact that is vital to my plans. I leave tonight for Llomerynn. And as always, I leave you and the other generals in charge.”

“Yes, of course,” Abelas responded, unsurprised by the suddenness of the unplanned trip. The Dread Wolf rarely stayed with his army for long periods of time, only checking in several times a year. The increased rate that the ancient artifacts were being uncovered, however, necessitated more frequent stays from him. “I will continue the training of the troops and look over the welfare of our people as I always do.”

“I have no doubt in your ability.” And then, strangely, he clapped Abelas on the shoulder. “But at the same time, I both admire and worry about your complete devotion to duty. All of your other Sentinels seem to have found some kind of recreational outlet to aid them in returning to everyday life. Not you.”

Abelas shifted his feet and looked away from those searching eyes. “Are we still speaking of this, Solas?”

Fen’harel, to his credit, had the decency to look apologetic. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I will not speak of it again. That is all.”

Abelas left the tent with a bow and went about the rest of his day, but he had much more to think over than when it had started.

****************

His shift on watch passed uneventfully. The area of the perimeter that he patrolled, the outskirts of the western side of the camp and the Eluvian clearing, was dark and quiet all night. Except for just after nightfall when the mirror lit up as Fen’harel approached it with a small entourage at his back. Abelas silently watched from just outside the tree line as the Dread Wolf gave the rest of his advisors some last minute instructions before turning to the mirror. The reflected gleam of the Eluvian’s light on Abelas’ armor must have caught his eye because he gave Abelas one final nod, and then stepped through and was gone.  

Abelas went back to his post, sometimes walking the perimeter, sometimes sitting in a tall tree where he could see and hear the entire area. It was peaceful and quiet in the camp after the fires burned low and everyone retired to their tents, something he only got to see in these rare moments.

He spent the time thinking over the conversation in the Command Tent that day. Of course he had found outlets for himself. Ways for him to just be him, alone. But he supposed that because they were solitary activities, no one else would know about them. All they would see was the soldier, the general. And true, the hobbies he had picked up were the quiet sort that old men enjoyed in their twilight years. Not the boisterousness of a man in his prime. He contemplated which way he truly felt. And that turned his mind to the one thing boisterous young men were particularly known for.  

Making the decision to stop avoiding Varda Lavellan was an easy one, he was already putting too much energy into it as it was. Since she could usually be found in the smithy with her father, it was difficult for Abelas to inspect and approve of the new armor being made if he did not go to see it. It would certainly take some of the pressure off of the already taxed messengers if he just went in person.

But he also decided not to encourage the flirtation that kept happening between them. And he absolutely was not going to touch her again, that would destroy all of his efforts and he would have to start back at square one. He was not the kind of man to be ruled by his desires, he assured himself.

He thought of his friend Souren as well. After Souren’s wounds had healed and he was cleared to return to active duty, he and Adhlea had left almost immediately to escort another recruiting party. Abelas was not sure if Souren was serious in his regard for Varda, but being away from her as he was would either diminish his interest or double it. Abelas would be sure to ask him how he felt when he returned.

But that made it sound like Abelas was interested in pursuing something with Varda, which he steadfastly was not, so he pushed the whole matter from his mind. For several minutes. Until the image of her green eyes sparkling with mirth surfaced in his thoughts. And all his assurances to himself flew out the proverbial window.

He told himself he would not seek her out later after he got some sleep, and that lie got him through the rest of his watch.

It grew colder as the night progressed, the freeze growing deeper by the hour. By the time another guard came to relieve him an hour before dawn, he had had to refresh the spell warming his body three times and was growing more perturbed by the strangeness of the weather.

His footsteps crunched quietly in the frost coated grass as he slipped through the still sleeping camp and into his tent. When he emerged again a few moments later into the misty predawn light, he had changed out of his armor into some of the few ordinary clothes he owned. They were woolen and warm, that being all he cared about at the moment. He fastened his fur-lined cloak around his neck again, raised the hood, and with his fishing pole and bucket in hand, made his way south to the stream that flowed just outside camp.

He was not surprised to find his favorite fishing hole was covered in a layer of ice. Hoping the cold water wouldn’t ruin his chances of catching his dinner for that evening, he placed his hand flat on the ice and sent waves of heat out from his palm. Once he had melted a large enough hole, he dropped his line into the water and sat back on a rock, one of many that jutted out at the edge of the stream and made a perfect seat.

He had a free morning as usual after his overnight shift, so he would sit here pulling on energy from the Fade to keep him alert until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. Then he would go get some sleep until one of his lieutenants woke him up at midday to plan troop movements or practice battle strategy or whatever it was going to be today. He’d rather not think of it yet.

He relaxed into his rocky seat and let his mind go blissfully blank for once. He watched the mist swirl around the trees, he watched a fish start to lazily circle his line, and he sat still and thought of nothing. It was beautiful. The light of day began to grow.

And then a twig snapped in the woods on the other side of the stream. And then another one. And another.

He was instantly fully alert, but he remained as still as death. He looked down, moving just his eyes, and saw that the fish had swam away. The sharp snaps continued steadily as they drew nearer. He waited with baited breath to see who or what was coming toward him in the icy fog. It was either something large or someone wholly unfamiliar in woodcraft, probably human or Qunari; no elf would make that much racket walking through a forest. He had no weapons on him. Where was the scout patrolling this section of the perimeter?

A figure appeared under the hanging branches of the willow tree across from him, still obscured by the mist. They were slight, no horns, and had a large bundle strapped to their back. He watched in confusion as they took a swaying willow branch in hand, reached up as high as they could, and broke it off with a snap. They continued in this fashion moving closer to him all the while, until he could make out a hint of bright red hair swaying around curving hips, and he relaxed.

It was Varda Lavellan, collecting willow and reed and vine in the tall basket on her back. They stuck out like crude arrows in an ungainly quiver. She hadn’t seen him, she seemed completely oblivious to anything other than her task, so he continued to watch her inconspicuously.

The chilled breeze brought rosy color to her nose and high cheeks, nearly concealing her freckles and making a stark contrast with her otherwise pale complexion. Her jade eyes were bright, focused on her work. Her slender fingers were deft and sure as they measured the perfect length at which to break the switches. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

He shifted, just enough to catch her attention, trying not to startle her. He miscalculated. She swiveled to face him with a loud gasp, her hands flying to cover her mouth. When she recognized him, she let out her breath in a relieved puff of steam, placing a palm over her heart. “Abelas, you startled me.” Her voice was the barest sigh of a whisper.

“You should pay better attention to your surroundings,” he scolded. “I could have killed you.” Her eyes widened in shock at that. “Had I been so inclined,” he amended. “Or I could have been an enemy.”

Her expression grew serious and her eyes shifted back to the branches in front of her. “Yes, of course,” she said, still quiet, “of course, you’re right. I’ve grown to feel safe here, that I forget we are at war.”

“Not yet and not here,” he said soberly.

She raised her eyes to his again. “Let’s hope not.” She snapped off another branch. “What are you doing out so early?”

“Fishing, but you scared all the fish away.”

“Oh I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, but when she saw the upturn of his lips she relaxed and returned the smile. She considered the weight of the burden on her back. “I’m collecting basket-making materials. It’s easiest to break them off when it’s cold like this, so I thought I would take advantage while it lasts. But I suppose I have enough. I’ll leave you alone to get back to it.” She turned to head back to her grove, which he only just realized was a stone’s throw to his left.

He did not have much time to lament her going. She quickly reconsidered, perhaps feeling his eyes on the back of her head because she turned back before she got too far. She walked up to the rock he sat on, meeting his gaze. “May I join you? I promise not to scare anymore fish.”

He shrugged noncommittally and watched as she searched the area beside his rock for a place to sit. She found another rock a little back from the edge of the stream to be acceptable. When she was comfortable, she removed the basket from her back and, producing a knife from her belt, began stripping the bark from the willow switches.

They sat in silence for some time, the only sound between them the quick slices of her blade and the gentle ripping of bark. He went back to watching his line and saw that the fish had returned. Now he just had to see if it would bite.

Varda waited until he reeled it in and put it in the bucket at his feet before she spoke again. “I wanted to apologize for the last time we spoke,” she started, keeping her eyes on her fingers. “My mouth has a tendency to get me into trouble. What I said was inappropriate. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You did not make me uncomfortable. Think nothing of it.” Which was true. The only thing he had felt at her suggestion that dinner would earn him time in her bed had been want. Intense and demanding want.

Talking to her father after she had put him in such a state had made him uncomfortable, but that was not her fault. And she certainly did not need to know about it.

“Okay, good,” she responded, not meeting his eyes. “I thought that since you seemed to be avoiding me that you were angry with me.”

So she had noticed. He shook his head, smoothing his brow and making sure his expression gave nothing away. “No, I am not angry and I have not been avoiding you. My duties take up much of my time. I have been training new recruits.” He cast his line again. “But you will be seeing much of me in the coming weeks with the increased production at the smithy. I will need to inspect everything.”

“Oh, that’s good, then,” she said, still pensive. She paused to scrutinize a particularly stubborn patch of bark. Abelas turned his head to watch her. She spun to him suddenly, her eyes widening when she found him looking at her. He did not look away. “Because I’d like for us to be friends,” she declared. She must have lost her nerve then because she added timidly, “If that is agreeable to you.”

He felt a smile rising on his face and he nodded. “I would like that.”

They held each other’s gaze for an extended moment. Until her eyes shifted to the side and she chuckled. “I think you have another bite.”

His attention jumped back to his line and he soon had another fish in the bucket. They both returned to their tasks, but this time the silence between them was comfortable and relaxed. He glanced at her once and found that she had a pleasant grin on her lips and in her eyes. And he couldn’t help but grin too.

He thought about telling her the results of the investigation and that she was cleared of suspicion. He thought about telling her he knew what had happened to her mother. But he decided against it. He felt she might not like him knowing more about her past than what she was ready to tell him.

The sun rose above the horizon. The frost started to melt. He caught one more fish and found that he could not suppress his yawn any longer. She had stripped all of her willow branches by then and was starting to twist them into thick skeins of whicker. She looked up though when she heard him yawn.

“I was on watch all night,” he explained. His eyelids were getting heavier and he was sure he looked fairly haggard. I should head back, he thought, I have caught more than enough for dinner. And then he had to stifle another yawn.

It seemed to signal the end of their break because she began packing all of her materials back into her basket. “You should take better care of yourself,” she said. “Take the time to rest properly.”

He stood, wrapping the line around his pole. “I am fine.” He bent and picked up his bucket of fish.

“I’m sure you are, but you shouldn’t run yourself ragged.” Her brow furrowed and she peered at him piercingly as if she could see all the areas in his life where he had been careless.

She really was worried for him. How strange. He could not remember the last time someone had cause to show any real concern for his wellbeing. His heart welled up at the thought.

She stepped closer to him, holding out a hand, “May I help you carry something?”

He huffed a small chuckle, “Your concern is sweet, but I can manage.”

“If you’re sure.” She looked doubtful but she lowered her hand. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

His gaze grew soft. “Yes, I do. Thank you.”

She smiled with her lips pressed tightly together, as if she wanted to say something more on the matter, but all she did was nod.

“Until later, Varda.”

“Get some sleep, Abelas.”

They turned away at the same time, walking in their separate directions. When he thought it would be safe, he looked back, hoping to watch her discreetly. She was already watching him. Their eyes met across the distance. She waved bashfully. Then she turned and continued on her way.

As he watched her until the trees concealed her from view, he congratulated himself on the success of a strictly platonic, friendly conversation with her. There was no need to be afraid he would act recklessly and try to pursue her.

Who was he kidding? Well, at least he hadn’t touched her.  

[mystical-flute]

Black Coffee & Pumpkin Pie (Ch. 3)

FFN || Ao3 || Ko-fi?

"Wow Neal, so you helped rescue two kids out of a mine?! Talk about a first day! The only thing that happened on my first day was me nearly dropping Charlotte's order all over the place."

Neal laughed, leaning back in his chair as he held his phone in front of him, his adoptive sister's face on the screen. It was surprisingly empty in this part of the station, which he was thankful for given the topic of conversation. "Well firefighting and waitressing are two different jobs, and it's not like I was the one that went down there. But I'm sure something exciting will happen to you. You're still in the big city, remember?"

"Yeah yeah. Hey, Mama wanted to know if you've met your dad yet."

He shook his head. "No, not yet. I'm just gathering information right now. Seeing what he's all about, you know?"

"You find anything interesting out?"

"Not – "

"Hey! Neal! Where are you?!" Ali's voice suddenly cried out. "We've got a visitor you need to meet!"

Neal grinned a little. "In the library!" he called back, turning to the phone again. "Duty calls. I'll call you later Tiana."

"Talk to you later, Neal!"

Neal ended the FaceTime call with Tiana as Ali burst into the room.

"Come on slowpoke! Who the hell were you talking to all the way over here?" Ali said with a laugh. "Mayor Mills-Hood is here."

"My sister," he said, pausing. "The Mayor? Why is she here?"

"Did you miss the name? Mayor Mills-Hood. She comes to visit all the time when she has a break from work… and besides, she's the sheriff's mother-in-law," Ali said. "I think she brought a pan of her famous lasagna so let's hurry up before it's gone!"

Neal could only blink as Ali dragged him into the dining room.

"Ah! There you are Neal," Captain Hood said. "I'd like to introduce you to Regina Mills-Hood. My wife and the mayor of Storybrooke."

Neal's stomach twisted into an uncomfortable bundle of nerves as he held out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Madam Mayor."

"And you as well. I just wanted to stop by and thank you for helping to save my grandson from the mines," Regina said, her polite smile dropping into a look of concern. "He's still in the hospital with some lung problems. I'm not sure if it was the smoke from when the tunnel started to collapse or something else but..."

Neal frowned. "I'm so sorry Mayor Mills. I hope he makes a quick recovery." The kid hadn't looked good when they'd pulled him out, and he hated to find out that his suspicion had been right.

Regina nodded a little. "Thank you for your concern Mr. Cassidy. The family truly does appreciate it," Regina let out a small sigh and rubbed at her arm. "My step-daughter hasn't slept all that well. I'm glad she has the support of the school and the community."

She looked around the station again and gave Neal another polite smile. "I won't keep you any longer. The boys here love the lasagna so you'd better hurry and grab a serving. I just wanted to say welcome to Storybrooke."

Neal nodded, letting out a breath when she turned and walked out of the station.

"Well that went better than I thought it would," Ali said, handing him a plate of the steaming lasagna. "You should've seen what happened when Jefferson met Mayor Mills for the first time."

"In my defense, my first time meeting her was at the hospital after we'd put out the fire at the cannery and we had people demanding information. No one warned me that she was the mayor!" Jefferson cut in with a scowl on his face. "It was my first day as well as Victor's so neither of us were prepared for that! We just thought she was a reporter!"

"Sure you did," Ali said with a roll of his eyes.

"Hey! Don't forget, I pulled your ass out of the mine when you were a student," Jefferson scowled.

That got Ali to shut up, and Neal had to hide his laughter behind a cough.

"Anyway… why don't we show you around town? Not that there's much to see but it's the least we could do for a new friend," Jefferson suggested.

"I'd like that. Thanks…" Neal replied with a smile.

The rest of the shift went off without much excitement, and before long, Neal was sandwiched between the two more experienced firefighters, wandering down the streets of Storybrooke.

Ali clapped his arm around Neal's shoulders, pointing at a building in the distance. "That's the animal shelter there. My girlfriend Jasmine works there. She's training to be a vet."

"I'm sure she'll become a great vet," Neal replied awkwardly. He'd only ever had one girlfriend, and it hadn't ended well when he'd caught her cheating the night of prom.

"And what about you, dear Neal? Don't you have a lovely girl or guy back in the Big Easy waiting for you to return?"

Was Jefferson reading his mind? Neal got the distinct feeling that Jefferson was reading his mind. Still, Jefferson and Ali were giving him matching curious, almost puppy dog-like looks, so Neal finally let out a sigh and shook his head.

"No. I'm single. Which is probably for the best, considering the move."

"Ah! Then you'll have plenty of fun in this town!" Jefferson said with a wide grin. "But really, you should find a date to the Fireman's Ball."

Neal furrowed his brow. "The what?"

"No one warned you about that? Honestly, it's like they dropped you in the deep end without any floaties! The Fireman's Ball is the biggest fundraiser for the department. Most of the town usually comes out to party with us. It's in two weeks," Jefferson explained. "The firefighters have the first dance, so everyone has a date."

"That sounds like something out of Harry Potter," Neal said with a slow blink.

"Well, maybe J.K Rowling just stole the idea for the Yule Ball from us."

Ali rolled his eyes. "Yeeeeeah, and I'm Stephen King." He turned to Neal then and gave him a grin. "A date isn't necessary, Neal, but Jefferson is right that most of the town shows up for it. Even if you don't have a date that night you'll be able to find someone to dance with there. But no, we don't get the first dance. Captain Hood and Mayor Mills-Hood do. Jefferson just has this strange habit of trying to play matchmaker for the town."

"Oh." Neal had to admit, he was a bit surprised. Most of the people that he knew that ever tried to play matchmaker were women. "Well I'm sure the Fireman's Ball will be a fun night regardless," he said with a smile.

Ali shrugged. "Truthfully, I think Jasmine enjoys it more than I do. I was never one to like to get dressed up and stuff but Jasmine grew up in that sort of world so she's used to it. I'd rather not have my shirt buttoned all the way up to my neck."

Neal laughed. "That's a fair point."

Ali grinned at him. "Seriously, don't worry about Jefferson. He's harmless. Usually." Ali ducked a playful smack from Jefferson before continuing. "C'mon, why don't we head to Granny's for dinner?"

"Ahh sorry I'd love to, but it's open house at the school and I have to go meet Grace's teachers," Jefferson said, smacking his forehead. "Pricilla and Victor would kill me if I was late. Even if Grace told me she doesn't want us there. I'll see you later."

"Pricilla? Grace?" Neal asked with a small frown as Jefferson wandered off down the street.

Ali nodded. "Pricilla is Jefferson's ex-wife. Grace is their daughter. The three of them have a great relationship so they all do the school stuff together. Even if it embarrasses Grace."

Neal laughed. "Just like any father would, right?"

Ali shrugged as they wandered into the diner and found a booth. "Wouldn't know, really. My dad was kind of… not the greatest guy in the world. He was a thief. Started bringing me up to be the same. One day he found out about the mines and heard that there could be gold or jewels or some bullshit like that down there. He was too big, so I went down. The mine closed in on me, like what happened the day you started here. Jefferson saved me. Took me under his wing. Dad was arrested and he's doing time in the state prison. I haven't seen him since. Frankly, I don't want to."

He stared at the man. "Shit Ali. I'm sorry, that's horrible."

"It's fine. It's in the past now."

Neal scratched the back of his neck before smiling gratefully as the blonde waitress stepped over to their table. Oh, it was the same waitress he'd had the day he'd arrived to town.

"Emma! I'm surprised you're working," Ali said with a small frown. "How's Robert?"

Emma only shrugged. "Spending time in the hospital gets to be a bit much. I can't really stand to be near my mom as she cries so much. Too depressing. At least I have school and work to take my mind off it all." Her face screwed up into one of distress. "You guys know what you want yet?"

"Chicken sandwich. You know how I like it. And a coke." Ali said immediately.

"Uh… I'll take a burger. Medium. With lettuce, tomato and grilled onions… with fries and a lemonade," Neal told her as her pen scribbled along the pad.

Emma nodded, giving them a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Sure. I'll get that right out for you guys."

Neal looked at Ali with a small frown as Emma walked over to the kitchen. "So… she's related to the kid we saved?"

"Yeah. Emma's the oldest of the Nolan family. There's three total – Emma, Robert and Eva. Good kids, all of them. When they aren't going down into the mines of course."

He snorted in amusement, and before long, Emma was back with the order, sliding the two plates  in front of the men with a polite smile. "There you guys go. Anything else you need?"

Neal looked at the ketchup bottle she'd passed over to him and bit his lip. "Yeah actually, if it isn't too much trouble, I'd like a small side of mayo, if that's alright."

Emma gave him a more genuine smile, a small chuckle and a wink following. "It's not the weirdest thing anyone's ever asked me to get for them. This is no problem. Be right back."

When she returned, he grinned, taking the ketchup and squirting a fair amount of it in with the mayo. "Thanks Emma. Growing up in the Big Easy, you can't have fries without fry sauce." Of course, he knew this wouldn't even remotely compare to Tiana's, but it was better than nothing.

"Huh."

Neal looked up in surprise to find Emma still standing next to him. "Uh… something wrong?"

"No, no, nothing's wrong exactly. It's just… I haven't seen anyone in town mix mayo and ketchup mixed together except for Mr. Gold."

Her words shot through him like a blast of cold water, and he masked his shock with a sip of lemonade before trying to give her a casual shrug. "Well… Mr. Gold has good tastes then. Maybe's visited the Big Easy himself and got a taste for it," he said with a small shrug, busying himself with his fries again. "Thanks again Emma.  Gives me a small comfort of New Orleans."

The blonde let out a soft giggle. "Well, you guys enjoy. I'll be back to check on you."

He wasn't sure what to make of this new information about his father at all, but it did give him a small bit of comfort to know that he had something in common with the man.

…And he had to admit, that little giggle Emma let out was pretty damn cute.

Zelena looked up from her book, listening and watching Neal Cassidy carefully. He did fit the basics as to what Baelfire Gold would be now nineteen years after his disappearance, but of course, it was very basic information… but the information about the ketchup-mayo combination could have been something.

It was a speck, but sometimes in the personal investigative business, all she had were specks. Sometimes they panned out, but many times they didn't.

She didn't often go out and do investigations of her own anymore, being a social worker with a handful of investigators of her own meant she was stuck with paperwork most of the time, but with Aiden Gold, it was different. Tumultuous as their relationship was, when it came to a missing child, Zelena Mills had promised to do her best to find him. Especially in the way Milah and Killian had just up and disappeared from the town.

So she observed, sipping at her tea and making small notes in her notebook, until the two firefighters departed, and then, when she knew no one else was looking, Zelena rose from her seat and slid Neal Cassidy's straw into the plastic bag she had on her.

Specks were nice, but if she could get a fire burning, well… that would be even better.

Slipping  a tip on her table, Zelena quietly paid for her meal and made her way to her car, dialing a number on her phone as she did so.

"Yes?"

"Walsh my darling. I need a favor."

Walsh let out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "Well, that's never a good sign. What is it now?"

"I'm working a case for Aiden Gold."

"An even worse sign."

"It's his son. He's suspicious about the new firefighter."

"Oh? And what do you have cooked up in your head in order to help him, Zelena?"

"I have a straw Mr. Cassidy used. Will that be sufficient to get DNA off of?"

Zelena could hear Walsh's fingers tapping against a desk, the man letting out another sigh. "I'll try the straw, but you know it's easier when it's a lock of hair. But I'll do my best on it."

"I know you will, Walsh."

Ending the call, Zelena slipped her phone into her pocket and drove the short distance to the lab. Sure, it was shady, considering she could have just gone to the forensics lab that the sheriff used, but Walsh got results faster than them, with little red tape. For Zelena, it was better that way.

Especially when one was working for Aiden Gold.

Zelena slipped easily through the halls of the lab, giving Walsh a sly smile. "Hello darling," she said with a smirk. "Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice."

"I always make time for you, Zelena," Walsh replied, giving her a weary nod. "For this town's sake, I hope you've got something. The results should be in in about a month."

She bristled. "A month?! Walsh, you know this needs to be done faster than the police!"

"Yeah, I know that Zelena, but the police are kind of breathing down my neck right now so I need to be careful. I know this case is important. I know it involves Gold. But I can't put my life and career at risk like this."

Well, he had her there. Even though she was a private investigator, she was still at the mercy of David Nolan, and even though Robert was in the hospital and he'd be busy, that didn't stop him from making sure she was in line.

"Okay. Just tell me when the results are in," she relented, turning and making her way out of the office with a heavy sigh. She paused when she felt her phone buzz as she got to her car, eyes widening when she saw she had a text from her daughter, Margot. She'd been traveling for so long and Zelena hadn't seen her in months. Her heart thundered against her chest as she opened the text anxiously.

Hey Mom. I'm home.

[tbehartoo]

Marshmallows and Mistletoe

for @haru-no-hikaru  and @mlsecretsanta​ for ML Secret Santa 2017 Characters: Alya Cesaire and Nino Lahiffe

Rating: General

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Nino knows that Alya hasn’t always had the best history with happiness at Christmas time. He’s determined to make their first Christmas together in their first apartment perfect.

Word Count: 3580

On AO3              on FFN

“What the-” Alya stopped in the middle of the doorway looking down at her barking pomeranian puppy. When she left in the morning he had been a tan little puff ball, but now all that could be seen was his little foxy face and tiny tail, everything else was covered in a hideous, knitted confection of forest green and crimson. “Malin has an ugly sweater! My life is complete!”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Nino said as he gave his wife a kiss. “I guess that means we can cancel Christmas and I can return your presents.”

“Don’t you dare Lahiffe!” she said with a mock growl. “I need that Himalayan salt scrub and those fizzing bath bombs.”

“You weren’t supposed to know about the bath bombs,” he tutted at her as he took her computer bag and briefcase to put them on her desk in their shared office.

“Don’t leave your Amazon page up and not change any of your passwords,” she replied as she checked the pans on the stove. She inhaled deeply and her mouth started watering at the scent of onions and ras el hanout. She knew the other pan on the stove would be a fluffy couscous to go under the simmering stew in front of her.

“Babe, have I ever told you that I love it when you make me Moroccan food?” she said when Nino returned to the kitchen and dining area.

He stepped up behind her to give her a hug. “Just about every time I make it.” He gave her a quick squeeze and kiss on her neck. “Have I ever told you how much I love being able to kiss you at the end of a long day?”

Alya put the lid back on the pan before spinning around in Nino’s arms and putting her own arms around his neck. “Maybe you should remind me,” she said with a grin.

Nino happily obliged.

Eventually they had to disengage to keep the food from burning.

Nino moved the chickpea stew off of the hot burner while Alya got the dishes. They served themselves at the stove and moved to the couch. Nino set his plate on the coffee table and returned for glasses and something for them to drink, while Alya fetched utensils and napkins. Once they were seated Malin whined until Alya picked him up so that he could sit with his people. Ultimately both humans and puppy were situated in comfort and dinner began in earnest.

Nino decided to wait until after dinner was over and the dishes were done before broaching the subject that had been on his mind all day. He wasn’t quite sure how to bring it up as Alya was touchy about things like family and Christmas being mentioned in the same sentence.

“Stop eating all the marshmallows Lahiffe, I want some too,” she teased as they made some hot cocoa before watching their saved tv shows. She looked closely at her husband. He was shoveling the mini-marshmallows into his mouth on automatic and didn’t even seem to be chewing them.

“Hey,” she said quietly as she put her hand on top of the one reaching for another one of the fluffy, white squares. His hand stopped moving.

“Nino?” she started brushing her thumb over the back of his hand. “What’s bothering you, hon?”

“Huh?” he looked down at their hands and then into Alya’s concerned face. “Oh, um, just thinking about something.” He picked up his mug and headed back to the couch, “But I‘m pretty sure you’re not gonna want to hear it.”

She picked up her mug and grabbed a handful of the marshmallows as she followed him back. “Come on Nino,” she said gently, “If there’s something worrying you, I want to hear about it.”

“Okay, just hear me out,” he said as he turned and only partially faced her. “This is our first Christmas in our own place and it might be small, but it’s ours.” He gestured to the tiny apartment. “And Christmas is a big deal in my family.” He set his mug down and picked up Malin. He started petting the puppy, he continued talking but didn’t look up. “I’d like to be able to have a family Christmas party-” Well she hadn’t said no right away. Maybe this could still work? “-and, and invite everybody.” He continued to pet the pomeranian but side-eyed Alya.

Alya reached out and gave the dog a pet on his soft head. He started to lick off the remains of the sugar still stuck to her fingers.

“You want to invite my family over for Christmas,” she said blankly.

Nino nodded.

“All... of my family.”

Another nod.

“You do recall our wedding reception?”

Nino just continued to pat the dog while Alya’s fingers were thoroughly inspected for any sugary molecules by the puppy. The silence continued to stretch out. Nino was about to tell her to forget about the whole thing when Alya sighed.

“If you want to invite my family over for Christmas, be ready for somebody to get stabbed.”

And that was all she said before grabbing the remote and turning on “Scène de Ménage.” Nino smiled as he riled Malin up then set him free to dash around the room.

He grabbed Alya and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks babe,” he choked out. “That really means a lot to me.”

Alya hugged him back. “I know.” She gave him a kiss on his temple. “You wouldn’t ask to do it if it wasn’t important to you.”

He let her go and heard her grumble as she sat back, “It’s a good thing I love you.”

Nino couldn’t help but grin at her. “I love you, too.”

From that moment onward Alya could look forward to new holiday surprises every time she came home. Nino put out garland and candles one day. The next evening Alya found ropes of twinkling lights crisscrossing the ceiling. Marinette had been called in to decorate the tree within an inch of perfection, and she succeeded beyond the wildest of expectations. Unfortunately, no one told Malin that the tree was not for his personal amusement. Marinette was called in again to do damage control and a childproofing gate was erected around the base of the tree. Late in the week Alya came home to find brightly wrapped packages in every nook and cranny.

“Nino, what happened here?” Alya asked in disbelief.

“Adrien brought over some boxes and we wrapped them up,” Nino said as he fished for the scissors under the couch where Malin had knocked them.

She tried to pick up one of the larger boxes and couldn’t even lift it. “Nino! What is in here?”

“Huh?” he looked up to see what she was talking about. “Oh that,” he said as he ducked his head and finally managed to snage the scissors. “You don’t want to move that one or any of the other big ones covered in red with gold bows. We decided to wrap my speakers so it would be safe to stack stuff on them.”

Alya smiled down at him. “You’re really going all out for this, babe.”

Nino stood and wrapped Alya in a hug. “Well you deserve the best first Christmas ever,” he said earnestly.

“So do you,” Alya replied. “Listen Nino, you don’t have to keep killing yourself over this.” She looked around their apartment. He had turned it into a scene that wouldn’t look out of place in one of those home and garden magazines. “Our place looks amazing. Please don’t think you have to keep adding to this.”

Nino simply smiled at his his wife, having not let go of her it was easy to swoop in for a few reassuring kisses. “There’s just a couple of more things and then it’ll be perfect.”

Alya sighed against his lips, “You’re perfect already.”

“Thank you, my lady, my light, my love,” he gave her a light kiss between each phrase. “But it takes one to know one.” And with that he cut off all other conversation for awhile.

The last decoration that Alya noticed were the stockings that Nino hung across a faux fireplace mantle. The fireplace had a fake fire inside with a light and fan to make the fabric flames flicker. Across the mantle were stockings that Marinette had to have sewn since they were far too personalized for him to have found at any store. His had musical notes, his DJ table, tiny flickering lights, and was embroidered with his stage name at the top. Hers was made from what looked suspiciously like one of her old shirts from lycée and was embroidered with Ladyblog articles and the name of the first magazine to hire her after she graduated from university. Malin had a stocking that was bigger than both of theirs combined and was covered with animated, foxy faces along with pictures of all his favorite toys. Alya had looked at the arrangement and laughed. It’s like her best friend knew that they both would be stuffing their dog’s stocking full of his favorite treats. She sighed as she looked around again at all of Nino’s hard work and resolved that nothing was going to ruin it.

The day of the party dawned with Paris covered in snow! It wasn’t completely unheard of for them to get it, but it often didn’t last. Nino was determined to make the most of the unexpected opportunity. Alya had taken a few vacation days so she wouldn’t be stressed about this whole party thing and wanted nothing more than to stay bundled up in their warm, comfortable bed.

“You can’t force me to go outside!” she yelled from inside her cocoon of blankets. “It’s gonna be cold and wet and miserable. I’m staying here.”

“It’s Malin’s first time to encounter snow!” Nino yelled back as he struggled to get the ugly sweater onto the excited puppy. “So either you put on something willingly or I’ll throw you in the snow without your pants.”

Alya threw back the covers and glowered at him. “You try that Lahiffe, and I will end you.”

“There’s my girl,” he said as he threw a hoodie and some jeans in her direction. “You know you’re going to want to get pictures of the dog seeing all that cold white stuff for your blog. It’s going to be adorable.”

“You’re right,” she said as she scrambled to get dressed. “It’ll be too cute for words.”

“I’ll make your coffee,” he said as he left the room with Malin in tow.

Nino had been right. Malin’s first confrontation with snow was enchanting. He had stayed under the awning of their apartment building as he sniffed at the white stuff. Then one paw ventured a test and was quickly pulled back. He sniffed again getting his nose thoroughly covered and pulled back shaking his head. Alya held her breath while the puppy stared at the vast expanse that was the little courtyard between buildings and then he dived into the drifts head first. He romped and played with the snow as if it was an old friend that hadn’t been seen in far too long a time. Nino had brought down Malin’s favorite ball and Alya was able to record several moments of Nino attempting to teach the puppy the concept of a game of fetch. If the dog wasn’t cute enough to go viral, the sight of her tall handsome husband loping around the tiny square calling for the dog to drop the ball certainly was. Eventually everyone was wet and cold and Alya called for a return to the house.

Nino put Alya on Malin duty while he made breakfast and she was glad she had taken the time to give the dog a bath and blow dry. She found more than crepes and coffee waiting on the kitchen table. There was a whole scene from the North Pole laid out on her best platter. Santa’s elves made with fruit faces and crepe hats were gathered around a giant Christmas tree festooned with more fruit and topped with powdered sugar.

Alya sighed, “Your pancake skills are certainly improving,” she said as she sat down at the table. “Did you already Instagram this for Adrien to see?”

“Do you doubt me?” he asked with a mild scoff. “The Agreste-Lahiffe breakfast battle is trending again.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “Just because his croissants came out looking perfect doesn’t mean he won today.” He sat down as he placed mugs of hot cocoa topped with both marshmallows and whipped cream in front of them. “Besides, he has an unfair advantage with Tom helping him all the time.”

Alya dug into an elf and made an appreciative moan. “I can hardly wait to see what you two come up with for your combined holiday spectacular,” she said through a mouthful of fruit.

“It’s going to be epic,” Nino agreed. “I think we’ll definitely break the internet.”

Alya laughed. She loved to see Nino like this, enthusiastic and passionate. She had worried at times last year that she wouldn’t see him like this ever again, but they had both learned to roll with what life gives you and to help each other out of the morass of despair.

The first people to show for the party were Marinette and Adrien, of course. They had left Emma with Tom and Sabine so that they could help with wrangling any disgruntled guests. They also brought a ton of cookies and a couple of costumes for Nino and Alya. Nino had changed immediately but Alya had taken one look at what Nino was wearing and locked herself in their room. It had taken Marinette half an hour of talking to the locked door and then several more minutes of one-on-one conversation to convince Alya to at least look at the clothes she had made for her.

“Mari, he’s dressed as Santa!” she exclaimed for the hundredth time. “There is no way I’m going to dress up as dowdy old Mrs. Claus for a party that I’m worried is going to turn into World War IV.”

Marinette simply hugged her friend and tried to reassure her. “We made it through World War III at the reception, you can make it through this.”

Alya shook her head, “This means so much to him Mari. He’s put so much time and energy into this and my folks will be in the same room and won’t be able to be civil to each other, while the twins take sides and my aunt will just …”

“Alya, you’ve got to trust Nino,” she gave her another hug. “Besides if anyone starts getting out of line, Adrien or I will politely escort them from the building.” She opened the box containing the costume. “Now come on and try out what I’ve made for you. I promise if you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it.”

Alya sniffed a little. “Okay, but the only reason I’d ever dress as Mrs. Clause is for the cookies. I want to make that clear. It’s absolutely the only reason.”

Marinette laughed. “Understood.”

In only a matter of moments Marinette was standing in the hall that led to the bedroom and proclaiming, “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, the Lahiffe-Cesaire Christmas party proudly presents...Mrs. Alya Clause!”

The strains of “Santa Baby” began to play from all of the speakers, wrapped or otherwise, and Alya stepped out into the living room. She was wearing a red, sequined, strapless dress that hugged and accentuated her figure. There was a trimming of white, faux fur at the top of the dress and a slit in one side that ended at mid thigh. The red high heeled sandals matched the color of the dress perfectly and showed off the pedicure that nino had treated her to the day before. The straps on her shoes looked to be made of satin ribbons and ended in red bows at her ankles. Her hair was down and curling softly at the ends while an ornate red Santa hat finished the outfit.

She started moving to the music and Nino’s mouth dropped open.

“Dude,” he said to Adrien who was sitting next to him, “I’m gonna marry that girl.”

Adrien merely nodded at him. “You better do it soon,” he agreed as Alya slinked toward them, “before someone else does.”

Alya ended by draping herself across Nino’s lap. “Do you like it?”

“Babe, you are the most gorgeous woman in the world,” Nino whispered. “The dress looks nice, too.” He started kissing his wife passionately who returned his kisses just as enthusiastically.

“Calm it you two,” Marinette said with a practiced air. “Your other guests will be arriving soon and there’s still one more thing Nino wanted to put up before anyone else got here.”

“Oh yeah,” he said as he moved back from kissing her. “There is one more important thing that has to go up.” He stood up and planted Alya’s feet on the floor before moving away. “Come on Adrien, I need your help.”

At last everything was in readiness and the guests started arriving. Once it was determined that all the guests who were going to show were already in attendance, Nino stood before the front door with Alya at his side to make an announcement.

“Dudes!” he began. “Welcome to our first Christmas in our new home.” He waited for the murmuring to die down. “I’d like to bring your attention to the decoration hanging over Alya’s head,” he said pointing to the giant ball of mistletoe and ribbon that hung there. “From the the times of the Druids and on down mistletoe has been considered a magical plant. Branches used to be placed over doors to ward off evil spirits and to prevent the entrance of witches. Since all of you were able to enter I guess we can assume that none of you are witches,” There was a polite smattering of chuckles.

“In Scandinavia this a plant that represents peace. Standing underneath it is a place to declare a truce, or even to kiss and make-up.” He gave Alya a slight peck on her cheek. “Since it is a custom that is hundreds of years old I’m going to ask all of you to honor the tradition to bury old grudges and declare a truce here, if only for the night.” He smiled at all his guests. “I know that not everyone in this room gets along with each other, but please for tonight just try it. After all, you’re already dressed up and here.”

His face grew stern, an unusual expression for him to wear, “If any of you cannot abide by our terms, you and your warring party will be brought to stand under the mistletoe. If you find it in your hearts to kiss and make-up you can stay, if not then maybe an evil spirit snuck in with you and you’ll have to go. Santa has asked his elves to help with this endeavor,” Nino pointed at Marinette and Adrien who were wearing green Santa hats with elf ears on the sides. “They are making my list of naughty or nice children, and depend on it, they will put you on the correct list.”

Nino then smiled again at his guests. “You are the most important people to us so let’s get this party started!”

Suddenly Christmas music began to play and everyone began talking to each other again.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Alya whispered in his ear.

“It’s worth a try,” he said as he gave her another kiss. “We’re still under the mistletoe,” he answered to her unasked question.

“You’ve never needed that excuse before,” she smirked.

“If only Mari hadn’t threatened me with grievous bodily harm if I started a make-out session with you during our party,” he sighed.

“I guess we better attend to our guests,” she said as she tore herself away from his arms.

He nodded and turned to start working the room.

Many hours later, when the last guest had been ushered from their home, Nino turned down all the lights except for the ones on the tree, started the playlist he’d put together just for this moment, and grabbed Alya. As the strains of Michael Buble’s “I’ll be Home for Christmas” began to play, he started serenading his wife. She stood there with the lights twinkling behind her smiling serenely at him and he thought he’d never seen a more beautiful sight in his entire existence. Alya pulled him in and started swaying with him.

“You did good, Lahiffe,” she said as she laid her head against his shoulder.

“It was all for you,” he said as he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

She shook her head. “It was all for us.”

“Yes, all for us,” he echoed gently.

It took a moment for Alya to realize where Nino was steering them, but once she caught on she couldn’t help but laugh. As they stood beneath the mistletoe again, she couldn’t help but remember one more tradition associated with the magical plant. It was said that if a couple in love kissed beneath it, they could expect a long life of happiness. Keeping that in mind, Alya determined that she and Nino would have a happy eternity together.

[hmwolff]

In Man’s Skin: Section 1

He yawned and shimmied from his belly to his back, and, after another yawn, stretched all four limbs out in the air above him before he tucked them up against his chest and belly. Off to his side, his human, Kerne, was striking—or attempting to strike—a stew fire.

“Are you going to lie there and watch, or do you plan to help me?” Kerne asked. He scoffed at the one fizzling ember he’d managed to kindle, sighed, and bundled up more dry moss. With the bundle in his hands, he bent to cup the glow among the sticks and blew until the combination caught into flame. As he rose he shot the lounging Sïmon a mock scowl. “I guess that was a silent ���no,’ wasn’t it?”

While still upside-down, Sïmon tilted his head back, looked at his rider, and lifted his lips in imitation of a human grin. Kerne knew well that his particular species of dragon wasn’t fire-breathing, but he insisted on making the joke regardless.

“And you’re not even going to acknowledge me with a word, now?” Kerne shook his head, but his frown dropped and he laughed. He reached into the unequipped saddlebag beside him and fished out a turnip, which he tossed at Sïmon. The vegetable hit the dragon in the center of his chest and he snorted before twisting his neck around and grabbing the turnip with the cartilaginous beak at the end of his muzzle.

No, he said; his thoughts projected into his human’s mind. The alchemists called it telepathy, but the simple folk like he and Kerne called it mind-speaking. This was the only way Sïmon could communicate.

“Lazy beast,” his human chuckled as he tossed a few more branches into the blossoming campfire.

Yes, came Sïmon’s reply as he crunched through the turnip and then stretched his head back, parallel with the rest of his body. As anticipated, Kerne shot him a genuine frown, to which Sïmon responded with a warbling coo. He loved giving these short answers because they were guaranteed to irritate Kerne, and when Kerne was irritated, that usually meant Sïmon could trick his human companion into a game or two.

“I know what you’re doing,” Kerne said. He shook his head, leaned back to stretch his legs out in front of the fire, and busied himself with undoing the lace of his leather leggings—necessary equipment when the beast one was riding couldn’t be saddled and was about as slippery as a fish. “It’s not going to work. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me—”

A thousand times.

“—shame on me.” He laughed and threw another turnip, which Sïmon caught with a jerk of his neck. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to do besides put the stew on. I promise I’ll play after I get my dinner started.”

Sïmon squawked. Why does it take so long for stew? It’s barely after noon.

“I’m not exactly eating quality cuts of horse,” Kerne said. “I can hardly chew it if I don’t let it simmer.”

The dragon hummed and kicked his legs away from the fire and from his rider, tossing himself onto his side. He then turned onto his belly and brought his legs up under himself like a resting cat. Kerne spared him a glance and a smile, and, cooing, Sïmon lowered his head to the ground and watched him cook.

Sïmon cared little about vegetable-chopping and water-boiling, but he liked to watch Kerne work. No human had ever fascinated him as thoroughly as his rider did. He handled his knife with a deftness that came from many years of hunting and preparing the creatures that he had hunted. Just one slip would turn the metal and cut bare flesh, but Kerne faltered not once as he sliced off chunk after chunk of potato without even a board—with just his two hands—and then dropped each piece into the pot. Next there were carrots, some turnip, a little onion, and just a pinch of the spice the human so closely rationed. The stew smelled like nothing but raw ingredients, but already Sïmon licked his chops in anticipation of the leftover broth. Kerne always let him have it, but they had made a game of fighting over the pot. Even more precious than the stew was the point in the struggle when Sïmon inevitably pinned his companion down with his head and pressed the top of it into Kerne’s chest. He loved the to feel the rumble of his rider’s laugh up through his skull and to feel fingers combing through the bristles of his mane. Kerne smelled like the woods and the road and deep, wet earth, and when that human held his great head, Sïmon felt less like a three-ton beast and more like something precious.

“Your eyes are glassy,” Kerne said. Sïmon focused on him. “Are you going to fall asleep before we can roughhouse?” His riding leggings were laid out and he’d pulled off his good fur coat and dressed down to just his tunic and trousers.

Sïmon grinned and swished his tail. Bath time?

“Bath time,” came the confirmation just before Kerne took to his feet and darted through the sparse trees.

Sïmon was slower gaining his feet, but sprung after his rider not two seconds later to follow the sound of laughter and cracking branches. He caught up with Kerne after only a few strides and trotted abreast the sprinting huntsman until they reached the edge of the lake. While Kerne began the process of unlacing and stripping, Sïmon crouched, and before his rider could even shout for him to stop, he sprung forward and into the water, creating a wave half as high as Kerne that swept into him before his tunic was halfway over his head.

“Sïmon!” Water beaded down Kerne’s face and there were a few stray grains of sand in his hair. He held his arms out to exaggerate how the water bound his tunic to them in a gesture of frustration and blinked at his dragon. “I wasn’t even half undressed.”

You’re just going to wash them anyway. Sïmon, who grinned, waded deeper into the water until only the upper half of his head protruded from the lake’s surface. He stood, toes in the silt, waiting like a great blue crocodile.

“They’re harder to take off when they’re wet,” the huntsman whined as he struggled to peel out of his wool clothing and then the cotton underneath.

Watching Kerne undress was fascinating. Humans were soft in the strangest places—on the backs of their arms and legs and between their thighs. Sïmon hadn’t seen many humans in the state of undress that he’d seen Kerne, so he wondered if all of them carried as many scars as his rider. Human flesh was so tender that it yielded not only to knife, but to bush and bramble, so he didn’t know how it would be possible for a human to avoid scarring. Even so, he knew that Kerne—who turned his back to Sïmon to pull off and discard his tunic on the bank—had suffered through a life crueler than most. The scars that crisscrossed his back like city roads must have been from blade or lash or cane, and the one that started at the back corner of his right eye and came around to trace the top of his cheek must have been more intentional than a run-in with a sharp branch. Sïmon, meanwhile, despite escaping slaughter and running from bandits, was unblemished. Not a scale lay out of place and not a muscle twinged from wounds that had healed not-quite-right.

“You’re doing the staring thing again,” Kerne said as he peeled off the last of his underwear and tossed it atop his clothing.

Human bodies are strange and interesting to me, Sïmon mind-spoke. It wasn’t quite a lie.

“Human bodies are interesting, or my body is interesting?” Kerne teased. Sïmon answered by dipping his nose beneath the water and blowing bubbles. “That’s what I thought.”

Kerne splashed into the lake beside his dragon, and as soon as he was within reach of attack, Sïmon rose onto his back legs and then came down, sending a wave of water crashing into his rider.

“I’ll get you, you foul beast,” the huntsman sputtered through a laugh as he tread water and began to unbraid his hair.

As he unwove each dark plait, Sïmon waded over and nuzzled the unwound hair. The strands tickled his soft beak not unlike the way the fur of a freshly killed deer did, with the difference being that his rider’s hair comforted him rather than whet his appetite.

When will you marry? He wasn’t looking forward to the absence of the huntsman’s long hair, but it was tradition to cut it after the men were wed. His human’s was just past his waist.

“Never!” Kerne, finished with his hair, turned and wrapped his arms around Sïmon’s head. “I’ve already found my true love.”

Sïmon willed it not to, but his heart started to thrum. He worried that the huntsman might feel his nervousness in the pulse below his jaw. Have you?

“Of course.” Kerne released his dragon and paddled out into the water. “I fell in love with the road and the rivers and the trees a long time ago. And then I met you. I can’t imagine I’d ever time for all of that and a wife.”

Sïmon felt simultaneously comforted and heartbroken. He ducked his head under the water and meditated on his feelings while Kerne paddled around and finally swam over to precariously stand on his back. The dragon grumbled, lifted his head, and turned to look at his rider.

“I thought we were going to roughhouse, and here you are, sulking for some reason.”

Fine. We’ll roughhouse.

Sïmon cooed and then snapped at Kerne, who swam off his dragon’s back and laughed.

“Show me your scary dragon face,” the huntsman teased through a mock growl.

Sïmon opened his mouth wide and his rider laughed again, then swam over and started to examine every crevice in the dragon’s maw. He tapped a few of the tapered teeth with his fingernail and examined the crevices in the molars.

“Good teeth,” he said, and poked Sïmon’s tongue.

The dragon snorted and pulled his head back and away, shutting his jaw as he went and licking his teeth once his maw was closed. He drew his brow at Kerne’s laughter, then, with a sharp-toothed grin, he leaned forward and dragged his long tongue from his rider’s collarbone, all the way up his neck, and behind his ear.

Kerne still laughed when pushed his dragon away and then splashed water on his neck to wash away the saliva. “Come on,” he said, splashing at Sïmon, “that’s disgusting.”

Sïmon stuck his tongue out and advanced on the huntsman, who began to swim away in mock terror. The dragon was faster, and soon caught up with him. Playtime finally ensued, with Sïmon nuzzling and generally harassing Kerne and Kerne climbing over and swimming under Sïmon, who had a hard time following the huntsman’s movements. When the fun had been exhausted and Sïmon lay on the grass beside the riverbank preening his mane and scales, Kerne stayed in the shallow water, scrubbing his clothing and underwear with a flowery soap he’d picked up in a Vadkeen village several months ago.

Life would be so much easier if you human-things didn’t have to wear clothes, Sïmon mind-spoke offhand.

Kerne laughed and tossed a smooth rock into the grass beside his companion. “Yeah, it’d be easier for you dragon-things to get an eyeful.”

Sïmon snorted and nibbled at a bit of grime clinging to the underside of one of his claws. Most are probably more concerned with getting a mouthful.

“I bet you are,” Kerne said.

The dragon paused and a second ticked by, then another, and then another, and then Sïmon lifted his head and squawked in protest. No!

Kerne laughed so hard that he had to brace himself on his knees.

No, Sïmon said again, grumbling as he returned to his grooming. You humans and your obscene jokes.

“You know I love messing with you.” The huntsman wiped his eyes. “The way you react is fantastic. We’ve been traveling together for three years and you haven’t caught on yet.”

You humans are so…. so caught up on that. I don’t understand.

“You act as though dragons aren’t.” Kerne dunked his tunic below the water.

Well, it’s not… Not in the same way. Not for runners like me.

“Oh really?” He turned toward Sïmon with raised eyebrows as he swished his clothing around in the water.

Yes. Runners pair for life, always. We don’t think the same.

Kerne hummed and moved onto his other articles of clothing. Sïmon sighed nasally and lowered his head to the grass. Humans seemed to lack romance to him. There were certainly some he had seen that treated their wives and husbands the way runners treated their partners, but most… But, thinking about it, Kerne wasn’t most humans. Many times Sïmon had seen traveling men dip into brothels, but the huntsman shied away from that.

Have you ever— Sïmon started, but stopped.

“Ever what?” Kerne was wading out of the water, now, to hang his clothes to dry in the trees.

The universe gave dragons scales so that they couldn’t blush, Sïmon thought, and was grateful. Nothing.

The huntsman drew his brow together and glanced at Sïmon, but didn’t pry. For this, the dragon breathed a sigh of relief.

- - - - -

They did nothing with their day and by the end of it lay by the fire, Kerne looking up at the stars and Sïmon lapping the broth from the stew pot. The scent of the huntsman’s flowery soap was still in his nose, and he snorted in effort to get the lavender out of his snout. He missed the smell of the earth on Kerne.

“You hate it, I know,” his human companion said, “but it’ll wear off soon enough and I’ll smell like the road again.”

You smell like an apothecary.

Kerne laughed.

- - - - -

After Kerne had fallen asleep wrapped in his furs by the fire, Sïmon sneaked off to take a walk around the lakeshore. He liked the way the sand felt between his toes and liked to watch the reflection of the sky on the still water—to see all the little pinpricks of light surrounding a sliver of moon. He sighed and sat on the bank, then lowered his nose to the water until he could see his own reflection. He sometimes wondered what it would be like if, instead of having the scales and the fur and the feathers, he were a human. What would he look like, translated into such a small body? And, were he human, would he still care for Kerne more than he cared for his own wellbeing?

Sïmon sighed and drank from the starry surface, distorting his image into little more than a pale blue ripple. It hurt, sometimes, to love a human. It felt like every day he was waiting for his heart to be broken when the right girl for Kerne came along and stole away his long-haired huntsman to some little house on the outskirts of a big city. There was no room for a traveling dragon in the life of a married man.

If I could be granted one wish, Kerne mind-spoke to the empty air, I’d want to be human, if only for a little while. With that fantasy in his mind, he allowed his nighttime grogginess to get the best of him, and, yawning, he curled his body into a crescent and settled down to sleep.

- - - - -

“Sïmon!”

Kerne’s voice stirred him awake. I’m here, he thought into the air, but heard the call again. This was puzzling. If Kerne was close enough for Sïmon to hear him, then Kerne was close enough to hear the mind-speak.

It was only when Sïmon yawned that he caught that something was wrong. He bolted into an upright position and looked down at his hands—his hands. He had skin, fairer than barley, and fingers, with those thin little transparent nails that humans had. He stood, shaky on two legs, and looked down at his body, covered in clothing the desert-sky blue that his scales had been as a dragon. This clothing wasn’t just a simple tunic and trousers, however. He wore a short tunic that came to just the bottom of his hips, lined with bone buttons rather than strung together at the front with leather cord, and could feel the high collar touching the bottom of his jaw when he bent his head down. His deerskin boots came to just under his knees and the area around the stitching was patterned like ivy; buckskin pants were tucked under the boots’ collar. This clothing was more typical of the dundkeen people than it was of humans, but that thought had scarcely come into his mind before it was overwhelmed by many others.

He was human now. Sïmon had heard of water spirits granting wishes, but that was a sort of magic that was spoken of as myth rather than actuality. Yet, here he was, wearing man’s skin on the bank of a river. Kerne would never believe him. Kerne would never believe this, no matter what Sïmon said or how he pleaded, and so the once-dragon’s heart sank into his stomach like he’d swallowed a stone.

“Sïmon!”

He sat in the grass, drew his knees into a bend, and looked at the green between them. Everything looked so much bigger in this body he now found himself inhabiting. It was too late to take the wish back. Sïmon wanted to undo it as much as he wanted to run to Kerne and tell him the good news, but neither of those things were possible.

“Excuse me!”

Sïmon looked up into the huntsman’s face and took in the sight of his creased brow. He was so, so worried, searching for someone who was right in front of him.

“Have you seen a dragon at all—a runner? He’s a little less than twice my height and almost four times as long, with blue scales and a white mane. He’s been gone since at least this morning, and I’ve been waiting for him to come back, but…” Kerne chewed his lower lip and looked out across the lake before he looked back down at Sïmon. “If you’ve seen him at all, please tell me. He’s not usually gone this long.”

Sïmon gulped and looked away, choosing to stare at the grass beside one of his boots rather than look his rider in the face. He nodded twice. He felt so sick.

“You’ve seen Sïmon?” The change in the pitch of the huntsman’s voice made the once-dragon smile. If he’d ever doubted that his human companion cared about him, he knew now for sure. “Where? Which direction was he headed?”

“I—” He paused. What a strange voice he had in this shape, so unlike the one he had as a dragon. It was almost a trill, but it dipped low and resonated there, like water through a rocky stream. This voice was unusual for a human.

“You…? Please, even if you don’t think it was him, it’s better than nothing.”

Sïmon looked up at Kerne again and drew his brow up tight, because is chest hurt. “I… I am Sïmon.”

Kerne drew his head back, the worry lines on his face shifting into confusion. “What?”

The once-dragon gulped. “I—I wanted to…to know what it’s like, being a human, and…and, here I am.”

The huntsman’s confusion shifted into a scowl. “Listen, I’m sure you think you’re funny, but if you’re going to tell these kinds of jokes, I’m done with you.”

Without further warning, Kerne brushed by him and went through the grass on the riverbank, calling out for the very creature he’d just left behind. Sïmon drew his legs up higher, buried his face in his knees, and cried. It felt awful, and not just the rejection, but the sobbing. The tears felt like boiling water down his cheeks in the winter air, and there was the feeling of seawater-tasting mucus in the back of his throat and in his nose. He couldn’t leave Kerne, no matter what shape he was in and no matter if his human companion believed him or not. In this shape, however, there was no excuse to stay—he couldn’t carry the bags, couldn’t eat the leftover food waste, couldn’t let the huntsman ride on his back if his boots hurt his feet or if he grew weary. Sïmon hadn’t thought this through. He hadn’t realized that he was nothing to Kerne if he wasn’t a dragon.

He must have sat there and wept for hours. At least it, felt like hours must have gone by before familiar footsteps approached and Sïmon looked up at the human who had formerly abandoned him. Kerne at least no longer looked angry, though his brow was still knit and the corners of his mouth were wobbling on a downward trend.

“Why are you crying…? I—I don’t know what to do and I don’t really want to help you after that joke earlier, but if you think you can help me find Sïmon, I’ll help you figure out whatever’s troubling you. I hear dundkeen are good trackers, and wherever he went, Sïmon made sure he didn’t leave a trace. I lost him at the riverbank, and—and…”

Dundkeen. So that was why he was wearing dundkeen clothing. Of course. He should have known. Still, it hurt his heart that Kerne was so troubled over him when he wasn’t lost. He couldn’t say the same thing twice, however—the huntsman would leave him behind forever without a last thought.

“I can help you find him,” Sïmon heard himself say.

“You can?” The pitch of Kerne’s voice changed in that endearing way again. “What do you need me to do for you?”

“I…nothing.” The once-dragon stood shakily on his human—dundkeen—legs and looked down at Kerne. The huntsman had always been shorter than him, but as a human, he had expected their height to be more level. He wasn’t human, however, just humanlike, and Dundkeen tended to be the taller of the two species.

“Nothing?” Kerne asked, turning his head a few degrees to one side as he continued to look at the once-dragon. “There must be something you need.”

“Food.” He’d never get used to this voice. “Water. It’s a long trip.”

The huntsman’s brow creased deeper. “To where?”

Sïmon wondered if he would ever forgive himself for lying like this just to stay with the only person in the world who mattered to him. He turned to the west and motioned with his head. “To the plains out there. I saw him headed that way, and it’s the only place I can think he’d want to go, if he’s a wild dragon.”

Kerne followed his gaze and made a sound in his throat. “He is wild—or was, before we found each other. Why would he be heading west?”

This was a test, Sïmon knew. The huntsman wasn’t stupid enough to think that he would leave without excellent reason, which meant he had to come up with one and fast. “Depending on how old he is, and if he’s not paired, maybe the drive for a mate got the best of him.”

For a long few seconds Kerne was silent, but he asked after his pause, “And how old does a runner have to be before that happens?”

Sïmon knew that he was older than the number of toes he had on one paw—five, or maybe six, winters in all. “That depends, but usually around five or six.”

Again, Kerne was silent. When the once-dragon looked down, he could see the concentration. “And you know where this place is and are willing to take me there if I finance the trip? Why? Why would you help me for so long for so little?”

He shrugged. “I’m trying to get away from something, and what better excuse?”

“And how do I know I can trust you?”

Sïmon smiled and furrowed his brow as he looked down into the grass. “I guess you don’t.”

Several moments passed before Kerne sighed. “I’m going to ask around town to see if anyone else saw Sïmon, but for now, you have a deal. What’s your name?”

“S—” he started, but backtracked. “Sao,” he said after a beat. “I’m Sao.”